The Dead Man (36 page)

"Like you said, every one of these people was dirty."

I took a deep breath. "Okay, let's look at it another way. The killer planted evidence in Leonard Nagel's desk to implicate him in Anne Kendall's murder and may have done the same thing with the list of initials in Corliss's desk. For that matter, the killer could have arranged for Gary Kaufman to pick up the key to the gallery to make certain we'd focus on him."

"So, the killer is leading us around by the nose, getting us to chase the wrong guys."

"Not just any wrong guys. Each of them had something in their background that would make us suspicious even if it didn't hold up when we took a close look at it."

"Maybe that was the point," Carter said. "It's a classic misdirection play. Keep you and me running in a dozen different directions."

"And the longer we do that, the worse the odds are that we find Maggie Brennan, Janet Casey, and Gary Kaufman alive."

Carter nodded. "It's like after a tornado. You start out looking for survivors but at some point it's all about finding the bodies."

"The killer had to know what baggage Leonard and Corliss and Kaufman were carrying."

"I know you've only been at the institute a few days but who had access to that kind of information?"

"Milo Harper knew about Corliss and he might have known about the first sexual harassment complaint against Leonard and he knew what was in the victims' dream project files but there's no way he could have known about Anne Kendall's sexual harassment complaint or Kaufman's juvenile record."

"The description of her nightmare Anne Kendall wrote for Corliss was about being sexually abused. Stands to reason she might have also told him about Leonard Nagel coming on to her. And Kaufman would have had to explain his juvenile record to get into the grad program at Wisconsin with Corliss."

"That puts some but not all of the information in Corliss's head and he's dead. We're looking for someone who knew all of it."

"One way or another," Carter said, "everything was available to someone willing to dig for it. Your anonymous friend found out about Kaufman. The sexual harassment charges against Leonard were on the office grapevine and the criminal case against him in Colorado was public record, same as the Wisconsin lawsuit against Corliss. Plus, we know that Leonard hacked into the dream project files, which means the killer could have done the same thing to learn about the victims' nightmares. Who at the institute has the skill set to do all that?"

I shook my head, not able to get my mind around what I was about to say. "There's only one person. His name is Frank Gentry. He's head of the IT department."

"You know if he's at work today?"

"He was there a while ago."

"Let's hope he hasn't gone home early."

"I'll go with you," I said.

Carter laughed. "I don't think so. You wait here. I'm going to have someone drive you to police headquarters so you can give your statement."

"I already told you what I know."

"Yes, you did. But you didn't write it down and you know we have to have it in writing."

"I can do that tomorrow."

"No. I don't want to take a chance that you might forget something. I want you to cover every detail, make it as specific as you can. Take all the time in the world. Be sure you get it right."

"If you want me out of your hair that badly, why don't you just arrest me?"

"Too much paperwork. What I'd like to do is Taser you again but I'll settle for you and Lucy spending the rest of the day with a pad of paper and a pen and bad coffee. Sit tight and I'll find your driver."

I waited until Carter was inside the gallery and then got out of the squad car. I stepped between two sawhorses, putting the front row of spectators between the yellow tape and me, walking the perimeter until I found Lucy sitting alone in the backseat of Carter's unmarked. She turned my way and I signaled her to follow me. A moment later, we had threaded our way through the crowd to the north side of Twentieth.

We walked west toward my car as two cops pulled alongside it and stopped, boxing it in. We ducked behind a van parked at the curb as the cop in the passenger seat got out and scanned the crowd, talking into the radio pinned to his shirt. The driver left him there, leaning against the car.

"What the hell is going on?" Lucy asked.

"Carter wants us to give our statements."

"I know. That's what the detective who questioned me said."

"Yeah, but Carter will make sure it takes the rest of the day and night to get it done."

"He wants us off the street."

"As long as he can get away with it," I said. "Which may be too long for Maggie Brennan and the others. The killer has been sending us down one blind alley after another and I may have just sent Carter down another one."

"What now? We're not getting near your car with that cop on top of it."

A city bus westbound on Twentieth rolled toward us, blocking the cop's view.

"I hope you've got exact change," I said.

We walked alongside the bus until it stopped near the intersection with Oak. The doors opened and a stream of people descended. I looked back to the east. The cop who'd been guarding my car was coming our way. We weren't fugitives but he could hold us long enough for Carter to decide that we were material witnesses and take us in.

A black SUV with tinted windows cut in front of the bus. Rachel Firestone rolled down the passenger window and leaned out.

"Need a ride?"

"As far as you're going," I said, climbing into the backseat with Lucy.

A woman with swimmer's shoulders and close cut brown hair was behind the wheel, her deep brown eyes studying us in the rearview mirror.

"Where to?" the woman asked.

"Just drive," Rachel said.

"Why were you and Lucy about to be arrested?" Rachel asked, turning toward the backseat.

"What makes you think we were going to be arrested?"

"I'm a reporter. I notice little things like the cops putting you in separate cars, and the two of you sneaking out of those cars and hiding in the crowd before trying to get on a bus instead of into your car which is being guarded by a cop who was about to nab you when Edie and I saved the day. You know, the kind of details that win Pulitzers."

"We were invited, not arrested," I said.

"That was some RSVP. But I'm glad Edie and I are not accomplices."

"Your conscience is clear."

She laughed. "A reporter with a deadline doesn't have a conscience. What happened back there?"

"I told you that I'd give you the story when it's over and it isn't over."

"And I just saved your ass. That's a deal changer."

"For you, not for me. If you've got a problem with that, pull over and we'll get out."

Edie slowed, swinging the wheel to the curb.

"It's okay, Edie," Rachel said. "He's stubborn enough to get out and then all I'll have is a story I can tell but can't write."

"Thanks," I said.

"Don't mention it because I won't. Not in the paper, anyway. Makes me part of the story and that's no good."

My cell phone rang. Caller ID said it was Quincy Carter.

"Don't answer it. Turn it off," Lucy said. "They can triangulate our location using cell towers."

I shook my head. "I've got enough problems without making Carter chase me."

I flipped the phone open.

"Hey, Carter."

"Man, you are a colossal pain in the ass, you know that!"

"What are you going to do? Taser me again?"

"If McNair doesn't get to you first, only he's gonna shoot you."

"I'll take those odds. He'll probably pull the wrong gun out of his pants."

"Remember you said that. He just had your car towed. I'm asking you the only way I know how, stay out of this. Let me handle Frank Gentry."

Killers, especially serial killers, don't look or act alike. They're the Cub Scout leader who bound, tortured, and killed his victims, the computer programmer who lived down the street until he snatched my son, and the crazy-eyed loner who strangled and gutted the neighbor's cat, bad seeds from worse homes with broken brains and disarming smiles. Knowing all that, I couldn't see Frank Gentry on the list and felt bad that I'd put him on it.

"That's a promise I can make," I said and hung up.

"Where to?" Rachel asked.

I gave her Simon's address. She nodded at Edie and we left it at that.

It was past five when Rachel dropped us off at Simon's brick and limestone ranch house. The driveway and walk had been shoveled but the clean concrete would be a faint memory if the front that was moving in brought more snow. A low, gray cloud layer was pushing dusk into nightfall, the wind picking up.

"Nice job," I told Lucy. "If nothing else works out, you can buy your own shovel and go into business."

She poked me in the arm. "It's good exercise."

Simon opened the door and Lucy swallowed him with a hug. Simon eased her arms down to her side; his eyes and mouth wide open as he looked at me over her shoulder, his expression saying
how about that
. I answered with a nod and smile that said good for you but I'll break both your legs above the knee if you break her heart.

"What's the latest?" he asked, leading us into the bedroom at the front of the house that he'd converted into an office.

I dropped into a chair and told him what we knew, ending with Frank Gentry.

"You really think it could be Gentry?" Lucy asked. "He looked as ordinary as mayonnaise to me. Came to work in a shirt and tie. How do you kill all those people and keep it together like that?"

"I had one case where the killer dumped the victim in the bathtub, poured bleach on the body and then had sex with his girlfriend on the bathroom floor. Coming to work like nothing happened is easy for someone like that but I don't think Gentry is the killer."

"Why not?" she asked.

"Unless we find out that Corliss dreamt he'd be slaughtered on the steps of an art gallery, his murder breaks the killer's pattern of mimicking the victims' nightmares. Corliss was killed for a different reason. Plus, judging from the extensive stab wounds, the killer was out of control. We saw Gentry today. He didn't look like someone who'd gone over the edge."

"Meaning," Lucy said, "the killer stays on the spree until it's over."

"You ask me," Simon said, "things don't look good for Maggie Brennan and the research assistants if they haven't turned up by now."

"I know. That's what worries me. Carter will spend the rest of the night questioning Gentry and the longer this goes, the more likely it is that all we will find is bodies."

"We've been looking for a place the killer could convince Maggie and the others to go without a fight," Lucy said. "But Corliss was the only victim we found at the art gallery. Maybe the killer is picking them off one at a time, finding a place each of them is willing to go."

"Makes sense," I said. "We don't know enough about Janet Casey and Gary Kaufman to know where to look but there's one person who might be able to help us with Maggie Brennan."

"Tom Goodell," Simon said. "And I found him."

"Where is he?"

"Living with his son, like you thought. They're in Olathe."

"Olathe is one of the fastest growing cities in the country," Simon said.

"Really," Lucy answered. "Gee, that's fascinating. You know any more cool stuff like that?"

He was driving, Lucy in front, both of them giggling, slapping each other on the arm, drunk on love. It took something that strong to beat back the fear of being too late again. I envied them.

I was in the back, stretched out across the seat, my arm over my eyes. I had been riding the troughs all day, shaking and contorting, brain fog rolling in and out. The thirty-minute car ride was a chance to rest and buy time.

"Does Goodell know why we're coming to see him?" I asked.

"I told him you wanted to talk to him about a cold case. He asked which one. I told him the one about Maggie Brennan."

"What did he say?"

"He said it's about time."

***

Tom Goodell had the collapsed build of a tall, once powerful man; his shoulders still broad but rounded, his neck thick but stooped, his chest wide, his belly overflowing his belt. His cheeks were pinwheeled with red spider veins, his hands were age-spotted, and his fingers were gnarled with arthritis but his gaze was sharp and clear when he looked me in the eye.

"Missed you at lunch yesterday," he said.

"Got tied up, sorry."

"Well, come on in."

He led us into the den where there was a fire burning and a television on. A small boy, maybe ten, was sprawled on the floor near the fire, staring at the TV. He motioned us to a couch across from the fireplace.

"Hit it, junior," Goodell said to the boy. "Upstairs and get your homework done before your daddy comes home and kicks both our asses."

"Both our asses, Grandpa?"

"You bet, junior. Yours for not getting your homework done and mine for not making you." The boy scrambled to his feet and headed for the stairs. "Hey, boy! Aren't you forgetting something?"

The boy blushed and smiled, trotted over to Goodell who bent down, offering a rough whiskered cheek for the boy to kiss, hugging the boy and brushing the boy's hair with his hand, the boy returning the gesture, tugging on Goodell's thin white hair, both of them laughing. Goodell waited until the boy was gone.

"Okay, then," he said, settling into his recliner. "Let's talk murder."

"It's a long story," I began.

"You see that," Goodell said, interrupting and pointing to the television. "That thing's on the whole goddamn day. Keeps me company when the kid's in school and my son's on the job, now that he and his wife are split up. I favor MSNBC over those morons at Fox but I've been mostly watching the local news this week."